Susan frowned. “I don’t think I’ll be able to answer them.”
“There’s the very real prospect of budget cuts,” Sandy said. “Do you think that’s likely?”
“I wouldn't know,” Susan said. “I only know what I’ve read on the datanet.”
She’d read a dozen political updates over the last couple of days, after Admiral Fitzwilliam’s odd remarks, but the conclusions had been so widely varied that she’d found them completely useless. One analyst had insisted that the government’s majority would remain strong, while two others had argued the exact opposite. Most of them had agreed that some things were going to change, but disagreed on what would. In the end, she’d done her best to put it out of her mind.
“But you’re a serving officer,” Sandy said. “Do you have any insights on the war?”
Susan kept her face expressionless. “I believe we will win,” she said. “There’s one alien empire facing both us and the Tadpoles. Their tech advantages are a problem, but we have faced that issue before and overcome it.”
“Ah,” Sandy said. “The official line.”
“I have no reason to doubt it,” Susan said, dryly. “The deceit regularly practiced by corporate hacks is largely absent from the navy.”
“Idealist,” Sandy charged, mischievously. He shrugged. “Jokes aside, it’s rare for a corporate hack to lie. They just do their best to spin facts in their favour. I’ve fired people for spinning things so much that the essential truth is lost.”
“How honest,” Susan said.
“It’s a matter of perception,” Sandy said. “If we are seen as financially weak, our competitors will try to push us into situations that will tip us over the edge. It's in our interest to look strong, even if we’re not. It helps keep us stable long enough to recover, as long as we’re smart enough not to lie to ourselves.”
Susan smiled. “Are you weak?”
“Not at the moment,” Sandy said. “But if the government’s budget is cut, for whatever reason, the knock-on effects might hurt us. So yes, we’re trying to determine what might happen before it does.”
“I think you’d be better off reading tea leaves,” Susan told him. “The reports I read disagreed on almost everything.”
“It would be cheaper too,” Sandy agreed. He met her eyes. “Have you seen the protesters?”
“Yes,” Susan said.
“There’s a growing groundswell of discontent,” Sandy said. “People thinking we should be investing more in Britain, rather than Britannia and the Royal Navy. Sending our ships millions of light years to fight a foe who poses no direct threat to us ... they see it as a waste of resources.”
“Better to fight over there than over here,” Susan pointed out. “I was there when the Contact Fleet got jumped. The Foxes attacked without provocation.”
She looked back at him. “Do you believe it’s a waste? That we shouldn't be fighting the war?”
Sandy shrugged as he called for the bill. “From a strictly pragmatic point of view, Susan, we signed a treaty with the Tadpoles and we have to uphold that treaty. Doing otherwise will cause them to question our willingness to uphold other treaties. At best, they’ll be disinclined to work with us in future; at worst, they may regard us as a prospective threat - again - and take steps to crush us. And, as you said, better to fight in their space than ours.
“From another point of view, we are wasting billions of pounds on fighting a war that could be better spent elsewhere,” he added. “I could point to a dozen places in Britain that could use the investment. Hell, building more colony ships and freighters would be useful too, I think. From that point of view, the protesters have a point. The Tadpoles and our new enemies are distant. Our other problems” - he waved a hand around the room - “are in our face.”
He paid, politely declining Susan’s attempt to pay half, then rose and led her out onto the streets. Night had fallen; crowds of men and women were emerging from theatres and heading into the nearest restaurants. Susan followed him down towards Charing Cross, picking her way through the crowds. A line of policemen were positioned near Trafalgar Square, looking grim. The protesters, beyond them, were being confronted by a far larger crowd of angry civilians.
“Better to stay away,” Sandy said, as they slipped up a side street. A number of policemen hurried past them, heading onwards to Trafalgar Square. “There’s going to be trouble soon, unless I am very much mistaken.”
“Probably,” Susan agreed. There was a nasty feeling in the air, an ominous sense that violence was on the verge of breaking out. She hadn't felt anything like it since the last football match she’d attended, when the Royal Marines had played the Grenadier Guards on Britannia. Thankfully, the sergeants had put a break on the post-game shouting match before it had turned into actual violence. “We don’t want to be arrested when the police squash the riot.”
She followed him through a couple more streets until they stopped in front of a hotel, an old building that dated back over three hundred years. The doorman saluted, opening the doors for them. Sandy led her into the lobby, then stopped. Susan shook her head as she took in the golden statues and the animal heads mounted on the walls, silently recalculating her estimate of his earnings. The building was almost as luxurious as the MOD. It wouldn't open its doors to anyone who earned less than a hundred thousand a year.
“I’m staying here for the moment,” Sandy said. His voice was suddenly serious. “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”
Susan considered it, just for a moment. She knew what he had in mind and it didn't involve drinking. It had been a long time - a very long time - since she’d slept with anyone, let alone woken up in someone else’s bed. Her body was suddenly intent on reminding her just how long it had been. It would be just a fling, she knew, something to enjoy before she went back to space ...
“Of course,” she said. She reached out and took his arm. “I’d like that.”
Chapter Seven
The bathtub, George decided, was large enough to float a small boat.
It was a bit of an exaggeration, she told herself as she lay back in the warm water, but the tub was definitely large enough for an orgy. Judging by some of the waterproof paintings on the wall, it had been used for an orgy. A dozen adults could have fitted comfortably in the tub, either relaxing in the hot water or enjoying themselves in other ways. She closed her eyes for a long moment, feeling the warmth slowly soaking into her body. Spending some of her trust fund on the Royal Hotel, the most expensive hotel in London, wasn't something she would normally do, but after training with the marines ...
The terminal bleeped, once. She didn't even have to open her eyes or get out of the tub to answer. “Go ahead.”
“A Mr. Peter Barton has arrived,” a doubtful voice said. The receptionist had fawned over George as soon as she’d run her ID through the system, but Peter Barton probably looked a little more questionable to her eye. He’d be in hock for years if he tried to stay at the Royal Hotel. “Should we escort him up?”
Or call the police, George added, silently. The Royal Hotel had its own security staff, ready and able to throw out the riffraff. They’d be happy to hold an intruder until the police arrived.
“Please,” she said, instead. “Buzz him into my suite when you arrive.”
She kept her eyes closed until she heard the outer door opening, then opened her eyes and leaned forward. The escort - a man, judging by the voice - pointed Barton towards the bathroom door, then closed the outer door a little louder than strictly necessary. George concealed her amusement with an effort. Barton had either forgotten to tip or given an insufficient amount.
“Come on in,” she called.
Barton opened the door and stared. “That’s a swimming pool!”
“Close enough,” George agreed. She wondered, suddenly, if she’d gone a little too far. He couldn't even begin to pay for the suite. “Get undressed and get into the water.”
She smiled as she watched him take off his clothes. B
arton probably wouldn't win any awards, but there was a rough edge to him that appealed to her, even though she knew her mother and sister would be horrified. It was a shame, almost, that she couldn't bring him as her guest to a family event, but the family would be shocked and he’d feel completely out of place. The romantic in her wondered about running off with him, somewhere; the practical in her pointed out that they’d never be able to stay together, but they might as well have fun until their final, inevitable, separation.
“You look different,” Barton said, as he climbed into the bath. “Are you all right?”
“Thinner and stronger,” George said. She wasn’t about to admit that she’d ordered a large meal as soon as she’d arrived and eaten so much she’d nearly been sick. “The marines made me work for a living.”
“I hope they’re giving you hazard pay,” Barton said. He swam over to her and kissed her, wrapping his strong arms around her upper body. “You’re really quite thin.”
“I don’t think they know which department is meant to be paying me,” George said. “I might have to do battle with the bureaucrats just to get my pay.”
“Take a few of your new friends along,” Barton advised, as he ran his hands up and down her body. “They can intimidate the beancounters into giving you what you earned.”
George had to smile. “You managed to get down to London without trouble?”
“I was in London,” Barton said. He smiled back at her, then pulled her closer. “Do you want to hear the news or make love?”
“Make love,” George decided. It had been over two months since they’d last met, let alone had a private room. “You can tell me afterwards.”
It was nearly two hours before they removed themselves from the bath, had a quick shower to wash away the traces of their lovemaking and ordered food from the kitchens. George felt almost human again, the pleasant glow of sex warming the parts of her the water hadn't been able to reach. Maybe their relationship wouldn't last - she knew it wouldn't last. She could still enjoy it for the time being.
“I don’t believe the prices here,” Barton said. He sat on the bed, gloriously naked. “How can anyone justify spending over two hundred pounds on a whole lobster? Or a chicken pie?”
“The people who come here are so wealthy they think nothing of it,” George said. She’d never stayed at the Royal Hotel before, but she’d heard stories. Some of them had probably not been meant for her ears. “There are places where the total dinner bill is well over a thousand pounds.”
“It's insane,” Barton said.
George shrugged as she heard a knock on the door, then tapped the switch to unlock it. The maid didn't seem surprised by their nakedness. She merely placed the tray of food on the wooden table, took the tip George held out to her and then retreated, as silently as she’d come. Barton looked embarrassed when George turned back to him, even though he’d served in the navy long enough to be used to sharing the facilities. Perhaps it was different if one wasn't on a warship.
“That girl’s skirt was so short I could see her bum,” Barton said. He sounded astonished. “I ... how does she walk around in it?”
“I could wear something like it,” George offered, wickedly. “Would you like that?”
Barton flushed. “I’m afraid to cough in this place,” he said. “I might break something.”
“Don’t worry about it,” George said. She’d heard that the maids could be induced into guest bedrooms, if offered a sizeable tip. One of her distant relatives had been braying about it at a party she’d attended, although she hadn't understood most of the details at the time. “They’ll have everything insured so completely that they can be replaced within the day.”
She passed him his plate, then settled down to eat. “Why were you in London?”
“I was taking the mustang exams,” Barton said. He held up his hand in salute. “You’re looking at the latest officer-cadet!”
George grinned. “I thought you weren't interested!”
“I saw the light,” Barton said. “Apparently someone told the chief that I was officer material, so I was put in for the exam. I spent the last month studying for it” - he paused, dramatically - “and yesterday I was told I’d passed!”
“Well done,” George said. She was genuinely happy for him. “You should have told me.”
“I wanted to surprise you, if I passed,” Barton said. “And I wasn't sure what would happen if I failed.”
George forced herself to remember. Mustangs - crewmen who became officers - were given a two-year course at the academy, rather than the four years she’d endured. The mustangs already knew the fundamentals of life in space. She wasn't sure what would happen to him after he was commissioned, assuming he passed his final exams. It was hard to imagine a mustang going into Middy Country.
Although it would have been very useful, she thought, seriously. She hadn't enjoyed her stint as the New Meat or as the First Middy. Someone who knew they had nothing to prove.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she said. She sobered as a thought struck her. “You’re not going to be heading back to Vanguard, are you?”
“No,” Barton said. “I have orders to report to the academy in three days.”
George felt an odd twist in her chest. Of course Barton wouldn't be going back to Vanguard - and even if he did, they couldn't carry on their affair onboard ship. Charles Fraser - her tormentor turned friend - had been right, when he’d pointed out that she was technically his superior officer. Having a relationship with him during shore leave was marginally acceptable. Having one onboard ship would earn them both a dishonourable discharge.
And yet ... and yet, she knew she’d miss him.
“You’d better write,” she said, jabbing a finger at him. “I expect to get a message from you every time I return to Earth.”
Barton nodded. “Likewise,” he said. He paused. “Are you allowed to write messages?”
“You can write,” George said. “I wasn't allowed to receive messages during my first month, but ... it might be different for you. You’re already used to life on a starship.”
She sighed. The academy’s policy had seemed outrageously unfair, particularly after she’d been forced to write a letter home each weekend at Hanover Towers. Mrs Blackthorn had paced the classroom, reading the letters as they were written and making sure that nothing bad was said about the school. It had always surprised her that none of the wealthy or well-connected parents had complained. But then, she rather suspected that most of the parents had had the same treatment in their schools.
But the academy was different. Cadets had to learn, the hard way, that they would be out of touch with their friends and families for months, if not years. Their universe would shrink to the underground warren for the first six months, allowing them a chance to become accustomed to the claustrophobic conditions on a starship. And if they really couldn't hack it, they'd be released and sent home. The Royal Navy couldn't afford crewmen and officers who were unable to tolerate cramped working conditions.
And that’s why a lieutenant’s cabin seems so splendid, she thought, dryly. She’d been in Fraser’s cabin a couple of times, back during her second cruise. The cabin had been small, but compared to Middy Country it was paradise. The former midshipman is used to sleeping in a cramped room with five or six others.
“We shall see,” Barton said. “You can write me messages that will be held in the buffer, if necessary.”
“Likewise,” George said.
She finished her meal and put the plate back on the table. “Are you aiming at command yourself?”
“I’m not sure,” Barton said, putting his own food aside. “The advisor I spoke to suggested I’d need to move off warships, if I wanted command responsibility. There are quite a few slots open on asteroid stations and mining ships. But being an XO doesn't sound too bad either.”
He shook his head. “I’m not that old, am I?”
“I’ll bring you a nice cup of warm milk and tu
ck you in,” George teased. “And help you hobble to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”
Barton smirked, then launched himself at her. George jumped aside, then darted around the room as he chased her. He caught up with her near the bed, pushed her onto it and started to tickle her mercilessly. George giggled, despite herself, as his fingers ran over her body, seeking out her most ticklish spots. And then he was on top of her, pushing her down ...
“Give up?”
“Never,” George said. She pretended to snap her teeth at him, then started to run her fingers down his back. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I’m young enough to catch you,” Barton said, pulling back so he could start tickling her again. “You can't escape.”
“Hah,” George said. She forced herself forward, a trick she’d learned from the marines, then rolled over and off the side of the bed. “Bye-bye.”
09- We Lead Page 7